


The Adventure Of The Noble Beggar (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [52]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Minor Character Death, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Watson meets a monarch who could give the Queen of Hearts a run for her money in the Merciless Stakes - as some fool who tries their luck with her finds out the hard way.





	The Adventure Of The Noble Beggar (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steelcandy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelcandy/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case involving the Amateur Mendicant Society'.

My friend Sherlock's many cases included everything from locating lost items (no, I never let him forget that fountain-pen!) to bloody murder. In this particular instance, it involved both, along with a murderous sibling who, most unwisely, did not take my friend's good advice, and paid for his stupidity with his life.

Eighteen hundred and eighty-seven was one of my friend's busiest years. Not so much in terms of his ever-expanding caseload – later years were worse for that – but it so happened that I ended up sharing more cases from this year than from any other; five in my original stories, eight more in the expanded canon of some fifteen years back, and two more this time around. As I have said before, one reason for this discrepancy was that whilst my friend had more cases in later years, many of them repeated or were similar to crimes in his earlier years, and I do not wish to bore my readers by being repetitive.

It was only a few days after my friend had placed that terrible photograph of myself in medieval garb on his desktop – even Mrs. Harvelle had smirked when she had seen it, and I had threatened that I would move out if he ever carried through on his idea of sending a copy to Sammy - that we had a visitor, who brought our next case with him. He was a moderately well-dressed man in his sixties, rotund and a little out of breath from climbing our stairs, but he had a pleasant enough face. 

“I am in urgent need of your services, Mr. Holmes”, he said, patting his forehead with a handkerchief. “It is quite literally a matter of life and death. Time is of the essence. We cannot.....”

Fortunately Sherlock chose that moment to present him with a large whisky, which temporarily stilled the flow of words.

“Watson and I think it is always best if our cases start at the beginning”, he said soothingly. “Calm yourself, sir, and then tell us why a lawyer has decided to travel all the way from the English Midlands to see us, and why you came straight here from the station rather than seek refreshment after your long journey.”

The man stared at him in astonishment.

“How did you know that?” he gasped at last. “Am I being followed?”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Your clothes indicate that you have undergone a journey of some length, therefore a railway carriage is implicated”, he said. “First-class, as second-class seats tend to leave small pieces of fluff on their users' clothes. There is a faint yellow smear on one of your boots, which is typical of platform markings on London and North Western Railway stations in and beyond the Birmingham area, but the fine soot on your other boot is indicative of a journey on the Great Western Railway, as only they use the Welsh coal that could have generated it. These two companies largely intersect in the English Midlands; a change of trains is therefore indicated, and the fact you did not stop to get your expensive boots cleaned shows that you were in a hurry.”

“But how did you know that I am a lawyer?” the man asked, looking more than a little alarmed.

“There is excessive wear on the area above your right coat pocket”, Sherlock explained. “It is my experience that lawyers tend to place documents there on a short-term basis.”

“I see”, he said, calming down a little. “You are quite correct, and I see that your medical author friend was right about your skills. I am hoping you can employ them for my use, and possibly save a young man's life.”

“Kindly tell us everything you can”, Sherlock smiled, “and we shall see what we can do.”

+~+~+

“My name is Mr. Peter Farmington”, our visitor began, “and I live in the charming Worcestershire town of Stourport-on-Severn. I am fortunate enough to be a junior partner at Cartwright and Farmington's, a highly reputable legal business in the town of Dudley, some miles north of where I live. I am technically retired, but my years of service have gifted me with some of our most important clients, whom I continue to serve as some of them do not like change. And none are more important than the de Braoses of Bewdley, whose estate lies barely a mile north of my home town.”

“Lord Harold de Braose was, until yesterday, my client. He was seventy-four and, I had thought, in good health for his age. He had had three sons, but all had predeceased him. The second son however, Lord Samuel, had married and had had two sons of his own, Sulien and Æthelbald.” He caught my expression and smiled. “Sulien was the name of the first de Braose to own land in Bewdley, doctor, around the time of Henry the First, and Æthelbald was his Saxon steward.” 

I nodded. I quite like old names starting with the Saxon 'Æ'.

“Just under a year ago”, the lawyer went on, “there was a major falling-out between Lord Harold and his elder grandson and heir, Sulien. I do not of course know what it was about, but Sulien, a good lad if regrettably hot-tempered when provoked, left the house as a result, vowing never to return. He was barely twenty-one at the time, and Æthelbald was almost exactly a year younger. I have obtained information to the effect that Sulien came to London, where he subsequently became a mendicant.”

I bit back a smile at the lawyerly term for beggar.

“In all fairness, I have to state that my personal preference is against the younger grandson, Æthelbald”, the lawyer said. “I consider that he played the dutiful relation to his grandfather, but although I abhor gossip, I often heard talk that he behaved very differently when he thought that he was not being watched. There was also a regrettable incident quite some years back, when he attacked a visitor to the house one time, for reasons I again know not, The servants, being servants, invariably gossiped about it all over the town, and he was sent off to boarding school soon after. I was also told by more than one of the late Lord Harold's servants that young Æthelbald had been applying subtle pressure on his grandfather to fully disinherit his elder brother. I know from my own meetings with Lord Harold that he remained hopeful of a reconciliation up to the end, but sadly it did not happen.”

“How did he die?” I asked. The lawyer seemed to hesitate. 

“You must understand that, as a lawyer, I abhor speculation and uncertainty”, he said slowly. “Lord Harold died from a fall down the stairs. Mrs. Fortnum, the housekeeper, admitted to me – off the record - that she suspected his younger grandson may have had a hand in that fall. Of course there is no proof of that assertion.”

“You wish me to investigate that murder?” Sherlock asked. The lawyer shook his head.

“It is young Sulien for whom I fear now”, he said. “Assuming that he is still alive, he is the only thing that stands between his brother and the estate. I would not put it past Æthelbald de Braose to hunt his brother down and remove the last obstacle between himself and all that wealth. The death of a mendicant on the streets of London would hardly draw attention, I fear.”

“So we have the added pressure of time”, Sherlock said. “We must go straight to the top. I presume that you return to Worcestershire today, sir?”

“Yes, sir”, the lawyer said, handing over a card, “but a telegram will reach me either at work or at home. I wish you Godspeed in your endeavours.”

“Thank you”, Sherlock smiled.

+~+~+

I fully expected us to be heading to see the obnoxious Mr. Bacchus Holmes in his office wherever it was – Whitehall, I supposed - even if I still disliked the man intensely. I was therefore both relieved and puzzled when our cab kept to the north side of the city, and eventually pulled up outside a small, dirty flower shop on the edge of the East End.

“This is 'the top'?” I asked dubiously. It frankly looked a lot closer to 'the bottom'!

Sherlock smiled at my befuddlement, and led me inside. It was nothing spectacular (and that was putting it kindly!). Two elderly ladies were there, both dressed in plain work-clothes, working on some arrangements. To my surprise, Sherlock approached the elder of the two and bowed deeply.

“Your majesty”, he said, to my surprise if not shock. She looked at him shrewdly.

“You had both better come through to the back”, she said. Her companion raised the counter for us, and the first lady led the way out.

The back room was very different from what I had expected. This was a Victorian lady's reception room, and the flower-seller looked almost absurdly out of place as she poured out tea (and coffee for Sherlock, which I found surprising; had he been here before?). She smiled at me as she handed me my cup.

“You always were one for keeping secrets, Mr. Holmes”, she said reprovingly, but there was a warmth to her tone that belied her words. “Even from those you drag through your adventures, however willingly.”

He turned to me.

“Watson”, he said, “meet Mrs. Margaret Ball, better known to everyone in this part of our fair city as “Queen Molly”.”

I looked at her in astonishment before I got it.

“Of course!” I said. “Queen of the Beggars!”

“Mendicants, doctor”, she said, shaking the sugar-tongs at me in disapproval. I blushed and lowered my eyes.

“If there is anyone who can help us with our quest, it is this lady”, Sherlock said.

She looked at him.

“Both you are your friend are known to be more than generous to my subjects”, she said. “You have a request to ask of me?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Around this time last year, a young man called Sulien de Braose came to London”, he said. “The family lawyer fears that his life may now be in danger, and believes that he currently practices a life of mendicancy. If so, it was my hope that you might be able to find him.”

“A year ago”, she said heavily. “I seem to recall reading in the good doctor's stories about how a certain famous detective sometimes makes pointed remarks that a trail has gone cold long before _he_ is called in? And that he frequently makes great play of the fact as to how that makes things infinitely more difficult for him?”

I tried not to snigger at the almost verbatim quotes from my own works, but I failed dismally. Sherlock actually blushed.

“All that is known is that he arrived at either Paddington or Euston”, he said, “and that it may have taken some time for his money to run out. His father was a rich man, and passed on yesterday. There is speculation that the mendicant's younger brother may have been implicated in speeding that passing, and that he may be seeking to eliminate his brother as well, so that he can inherit all. I have been asked to investigate the business as a matter of urgency.”

She nodded.

“I can make some inquiries”, she said, “but you would also do well to talk to Lord Joseph. He is of course as much a real lord as I am a real queen, but he is head of the Amateur Mendicant Society.”

“The what?” I asked.

“Mendicancy is not left to chance, doctor”, she explained. “It is all highly organized, so that the maximum amount can be raised from the philanthropic public, your good self included, and then distributed to those in need. If this young man did fall to the streets, then he would have been swiftly adopted by Lord Joseph's organization, and trained to do things properly for at least a couple of years, before joining mine. By having such a system, we are able to support those like this boy who are just starting out, and possibly even help them back into society.”

“I am sure that if we can find this boy”, Sherlock said, “he would always remember those who stood by him in his hour of need.”

The lady took a card and wrote something on it before passing it over to Sherlock. 

“Go to the address on there, and be sure to hand the card in to the clerk”, she said. “Do not be surprised if they snatch it off you; they are naturally wary of authority. The signature will prove that I trust you.”

“Thank you, ma'am”, Sherlock said.

He stood up and bowed again, and I did likewise. He placed an envelope on the table that clearly contained several notes, and the 'queen' smiled at him.

+~+~+

“I did not expect to be seeing royalty today!” I remarked, as our cab made its was towards St. Pancras and the address 'the queen' had given us. 

“Molly is head of all the beggars in London”, Sherlock explained. “Indeed, if only our government were better ordered, matters might not be in such a mess as they currently are!”

“So what part does the Amateur Mendicant Society play in all this?” I asked curiously.

“It is, as she said, the training agency for beggars, to allow them to maximize their appeal when plying their trade”, Sherlock said. “Facial sores, verbal patter, location, the right clothing – it all combines to make the difference between a good day and a bad one, between food and no food. Molly takes a cut from everyone who begs in the capital, but she is more iron-clad than a battleship when it comes to redistributing it to those who in need; the beggars starting out, families of those who pass, and so forth. Two years ago one of her subordinates tried to put away some funds for his own use.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Our cab juddered to a halt, and I saw we had reached our destination. Sherlock looked at me meaningfully.

“The man was dragged off the bottom of the Thames that same evening”, he said flatly.

Oh.

+~+~+

We drew up outside a funeral parlour, with “Wainwright's and Sons” in barely discernible gold lettering across the front. Having entered, Sherlock handed over the card that he had been given to the man who came to greet us. He looked at us uncertainly, then curtly told us not to move or touch anything before disappearing out the back.

“What did he expect us to do, exactly?” I grumbled. “Run off with a coffin?”

Sherlock smiled, and more quickly than I had expected, the man came back. His attitude was very different now, and we were all but bowed through to a small office. The name 'Joseph Wainwright' was emblazoned on the door. Our guide ushered us in, then all but fled.

Mr. Joseph Wainwright looked every bit the funeral director. He was about fifty years of age, a gaunt man dressed all in black and wearing what was far too obviously a hair-piece. I tried not to stare, but it took an effort. That was seriously bad!

He looked at us expectantly.

“Anyone who can persuade Molly to part with one of her gold cards must be someone”, he said sharply. “Besides, I've read about you, Mr. Holmes. Pray, what brings you along to the world of mendicancy?”

Sherlock explained our search for Sulien de Braose, and I noted immediately that, upon his mentioning the man's name, our host's face fell.

“There was an attack on that young man only this afternoon”, he said grimly. “A 'gentleman' tried to stab him. Fortunately the boy was out training with old Ben, who had his whistle on him. When a copper came running up, the attacker fled.”

“How is he?” I asked.

“He was taken to hospital”, Lord Joseph said. “I told Ben to stay with him, just in case. Attacks on mendicants are rare, but some people see us as an easy target. Molly always deals with them in the end, though.”

To my surprise, Sherlock seemed to hesitate. He and our host looked at each other as if communicating in some strange silent tongue. Eventually Lord Joseph shook his head.

“I would like until midnight”, Sherlock said. “Please. If it does not go as I hope, then of course....”

“I see”, Lord Joseph said, pulling at his short beard. “Very well. Because Molly stands for you, the Society shall give you that time, Mr. Holmes. But only until midnight, mind!”

Sherlock stood and bowed.

“Thank you, sir”, he said, before ushering me out.

+~+~+

“What was all that about?” I asked in bewilderment, once we were outside.

“I will tell you later, when we are back in Baker Street”, he said. I was a little annoyed, but said nothing. 

Sherlock stopped at a post office on the way home, presumably to send a telegram, and I was glad when we finally made it to our rooms, where I immediately set about starting a fire. It was a cold winter's day, and I was freezing. Sherlock went down to see Mrs. Harvelle about something; a couple of minutes later I thought I heard two people coming up the stairs, but when he came into the room, he was alone.

“All marches well?” I ventured. I knew better than to ask for details that he would have offered anyway if he had wanted. He nodded. 

“A visitor is due here within the hour”, he said. “I doubt willingly, but he will not chance that I can prove something against him without confirming it for himself.”

I nodded, and poured him a drink. We both sat down to wait.

+~+~+

“Mr. Æthelbald de Braose.”

Mrs. Harvelle announced our guest and withdrew. The man she left behind was anaemic-looking, tall and flaxen-haired, with a rat-like face. Even without knowing what I did about him, I disliked him immediately.

“Please take a seat, my lord”, Sherlock said politely, gesturing to my chair. I silently ground my teeth, but did not object.

“Not my lord, Mr. Holmes”, the man said with a false smile. “My wayward elder brother holds that title.”

Sherlock looked surprised. 

“I am sorry”, he said, looking genuinely bewildered. “I was made to believe that the hospital had informed you. They told myself and Doctor Watson that they had sent an urgent telegram to your City house.”

“A telegram about what?” he asked.

“We are sorry to have to tell you this”, Sherlock said gravely, “but your brother was attacked whilst begging in the vicinity of Euston Station this afternoon. One of the wounds hit a major artery. He died approximately one hour after reaching the hospital.”

He stared at us both suspiciously.

“And how do you know all this?” he demanded.

“Your family lawyer asked me to help track your brother down”, Sherlock said. “Unfortunately by the time we found the hospital that he had been taken to, he was already dead.”

He stood up and, to my surprise, walked over to the hat-stand. He seemed to be lost in thought.

“So Farmington did come and see you”, our unwelcome visitor said, pursing his lips. “Fool said he might. Pity you weren't a bit quicker.”

Sherlock returned to his chair and looked hard at our visitor.

“Three things, Mr. de Braose”, he said, and I knew that voice. The blue-eyed bastard had something. “Firstly, your brother was able to provide an accurate description of his attacker to the police. Right down to his eye colour, and the emblem on the red tie that he was wearing.”

Our visitor shifted uneasily in his seat, and pulled his jacket closer around him as if to hide the red tie around his neck.

“The rambling words of a dying man”, he said dismissively. “You are not implying, I hope, that I am in any way involved in this matter, Mr. Holmes? I would remind you that this country does have laws concerning slander.”

“Except those laws only come into play if the allegation is untrue”, Sherlock countered. “Rather more serious, sir, is the second matter. Doctor, please bring me our visitor's coat.”

I was surprised, but fetched the coat from the stand and brought it across. Sherlock did not immediately take it from me, but took a pair of tweezers from the nearby table and pulled a long red thread off of the collar, before placing it in a bag.

“When he was attacked, your brother was wearing a scarf kindly supplied to him by the Amateur Mendicant Society”, he said silkily. “Red, with purple and blue thread running through it. His attacker could easily have transferred any loose threads to his own clothing.”

“The words of a dying man, and a piece of thread”, our visitor scoffed, though I could see he had gone even paler. “I thought that you were supposed to be a great detective, Mr. Holmes. Is this the best you can do? Really?”

“There is something else, sir”, Sherlock said. “We know one more fact about Mr. Sulien's assailant, and it is somewhat interesting.”

“And that is?”

“He had recently washed with a bar of lavender soap”, Sherlock said. “In his effort to get away, Mr. Sulien pushed at his assailant's face. It turned out that your older brother was mildly allergic to lavender oil, because there was a rash on his hand when he arrived at the hospital.”

“So?” our guest snapped. “That does not mean anything.”

“Why did you come to London?” Sherlock asked.

“To see some of Sulien's old school friends, and see if they had heard from him. Look, Mr, Holmes, I have had about enough of these allegations. Unless you have some actual evidence, I am going back to Worcestershire.”

“Actually there is just one more thing”, Sherlock said, standing up and walking over to the door to his room. “But I am probably not the best person to ask it.”

He opened the door, and my hand tightened on my stick. Æthelbald de Braose shook his head, then stood up and turned to face Sherlock. There was a bedraggled figure standing outside the door.

Our visitor fainted.

+~+~+

“I still think that it was a little bit mean”, I said, as we sat round a roaring fire. The rain was hurtling down outside as if it was trying to force a way through the pavement, but inside it was pleasantly warm. Sergeant Henriksen had gone off with a still unconscious Æthelbald de Braose, who had had to be carried to the police carriage by his two constables. 

Our guest smiled at both of us. Mr. Sulien de Braose, now in a proper suit and looking every inch the English lord. He still looked far too thin from all his months on the cold London streets, but he was healthy enough, and would soon be back to full fitness.

“It was almost worth being stabbed to see his face!” he smiled. “He looked like the End Times were about to come upon him!”

Sherlock looked at him.

“You know they would have done anyway?” he asked. Our guest nodded.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“When we spoke with Lord Joseph earlier”, Sherlock said, “what I asked him for was _time_. For some strange reason, the Amateur Mendicant Society does not take kindly to people killing its members. Had Mr. Æthelbald not been taken to the safety of the police station, then they would have caught up with him a few moments after midnight. Of the two beggars who were watching the house from over by the watchmaker's, one left immediately that Henriksen took his prisoner in. I am certain that the good Lord Joseph knows already that justice is being done, and has reported such to his queen. And I have made sure it will be communicated to Mr. Æthelbald that any attempt to evade the full force of the law will lead to his meeting a very quick end!”

“An evil man”, I said.

“He was all but certain that he had gotten away with his crime”, Sherlock said. “My only regret is that I cannot prove that he murdered your grandfather, Lord Sulien, though I dare say that the Worcestershire constabulary will be taking a renewed interest in the matter.”

“You will be returning home?” I asked our guest. He smiled.

“Only for a while”, he said. “The estate is large and unprofitable, and the town council wants to buy some of the land to build houses on, which would make living in the house quite intolerable. No, I shall sell up, buy a place in London, invest the money and then do what I can for my fellow mendicants. I know some of them cannot or would not choose to get help, but some are like me, needing that push to get back into the world that passes them by every day. And Uncle Joe can make sure that the money goes to the right people.”

“A good ending all round”, I smiled. 

+~+~+

It was not, as events transpired, a good ending for Mr. Æthelbald de Braose, who shunned the good advice sent to him from Sherlock, and employed a lawyer who was sharp enough to obtain for him only a light sentence. The Worcestershire Constabulary were unable to prove the murder of his grandfather against him, and the killer was a free man after only two years in jail.

His body was found in the Thames less than twelve hours after his sentence had ended. When I read about it, I thought of a Victorian lady shaking her sugar tongs disapprovingly at me from across a table, and shuddered.

+~+~+

Our next case would be a matter of international importance, concerning an argument over a rock.


End file.
